


We've got nothing to lose

by iwontseecadyagain



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2012 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Tennis, Fluff and Angst, Football Player Louis, Football | Soccer, M/M, Olympics, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:35:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwontseecadyagain/pseuds/iwontseecadyagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Oops!” A deep and slow voice fills Louis’ ears as an arm reaches around his waist, to keep Louis from rebounding into another white-outfitted body – this time a short young girl who could only be gymnast.</i><br/> <br/><i>“Hi,” Louis replies as he turns to smile up at the person and thank him for preventing Louis’ life from dissolving into a real-life game of Pong, but the words dry up in his throat when he sees.</i></p><p>  <i>The person is a boy, tall and lanky with curly brown hair pushed away from his face messily and held back by a gaudy Union Jack scarf, green eyes sparkling from all the camera flashes and impossibly pink lips curled in a wide smile that nearly encompasses his whole face.</i></p><p>  <i>And Louis recognizes him instantly. And he thinks that maybe if walking into the Olympic Stadium during the opening ceremony wasn’t enough, having Harry Styles’ arm around him might be the killing blow.</i><br/> <br/>Also known as an Olympics AU where Harry is a pro tennis player, and Louis is a pro footballer. They meet at the opening ceremony and fall in love, obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've got nothing to lose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinitelymint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitelymint/gifts).



> Merry Christmas infinitelymint! The fic is inspired by [this post](http://tomlinfox.tumblr.com/post/68417545322/has-this-au-been-written-though-did-i-miss/). I stayed fairly true to the London Olympics, but I took artistic liberties where I thought it worked better for my story, so if you fact check me, I will smh at you hard. It's my first time writing a fic of this length and (relatively) first time writing the lovely Harry/Louis, but I did my best. Also, first time with anything remotely resembling smut, so don’t crucify me if it makes you terribly uncomfortable. Oops. I made a playlist ... but posted it on my blog which totally gives away who I am, so jokes, I'll update this with it after the big reveal so you all can listen to my questionable taste in music later. Thanks to the incomparable [Lina](http://tomlinfever.tumblr.com/) for the beta and reminding me when my American was showing. I like her a lot.
> 
> Sorry for the long note, I can't be short and sweet, only unbearably long-winded.
> 
> Update: Reveals are up which means so is my possibly shitty [playlist](http://iwontseecadyagain.tumblr.com/post/71063261031/heres-a-playlist-for-a-fic-i-wrote-to-be-posted-soon)! Feel free to find me on the Tumblr, too!
> 
> Super later update: Someone (Jorrisy on AO3) has translated my fic to Russian! Read it [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3397069). Also, someone else (CarmenElizabeth on AO3) translated my fic to Polish! Read that version [here](http://little-drunkhipsta.tumblr.com/post/127734682842/weve-got-nothing-to-lose-t%C5%82umaczenie-larry).

Louis has seen stadiums. 

Like, a lot of stadiums.

Ever since he moved from his quaint Doncaster to London to join Arsenal’s youth academy at 16 and eventually rose through the ranks – getting the call from the Gaffer himself, Arsène Wenger, to play for the first team at 19 – he’s traveled all over the country and continent playing football.

Emirates Stadium. Old Trafford. Wembley with the Under-21 national team. Even the San Siro and Camp Nou in the Champions League. At 20, he’s very nearly seen them all.

But he quickly forgets about all of those pitches and locker rooms and stands as soon as he enters the track at the Olympic Stadium. Actually, he nearly forgets how to walk entirely.

All he can see of what he’s sure is an absolutely massive crowd are thousands of flashing camera lights. Everywhere his eyes turn he sees athletes from every nation in matching outfits of varying colors and styles. There is so much to take in, his ears hardly register the thumping music, can only feel the beat thrumming through his veins and propelling him forward.

He happens to be stumbling around in a sea of white, all the athletes from Team Great Britain wearing these ridiculous matching white outfits with big-ass metallic gold collars that are the definition of camp. But he’s got one arm slung over Zayn’s shoulders – partly so he won’t lose his best friend and teammate, partly for support in case he does actually faint from the excitement – as he waves around a little Union Jack with his free hand and tries to hold back tears.

Louis is not usually a sappy emotional mess, all right? But when your lifelong dream of representing your country at a major world event playing the sport that gives your life purpose suddenly becomes your actually very real reality, you might get a little misty-eyed, too.

“This is it, mate! The Olympics! We’re here! We made it!” Zayn’s shouting straight in his ear to be heard, the excitement clearly getting to him, too, as his usual contemplative demeanor is nowhere to be seen.

“You think this opening ceremony is great, wait until we’re parading through the closing ceremony with gold medals around our necks!” Louis shouts back before another group of teammates crowds them from behind, expressing their same disbelief that they all are, indeed, Olympians.

But being just an Olympian isn’t enough. Louis’ singular goal at these Games is to lead his Under-23 team to becoming Olympic champions on home soil, restoring all that long-lost pride to English (well, British, to be politically correct) football.

And that resolve only wavers just _slightly_ when another stumbling body clad in white bumps hard into his side just after Louis manages to break away from the dog pile that has become his teammates.

“Oops!” A deep and slow voice fills Louis’ ears as an arm reaches around his waist, to keep Louis from rebounding into another white-outfitted body – this time a short young girl who could only be gymnast.

“Hi,” Louis replies as he turns to smile up at the person and thank him for preventing Louis’ life from dissolving into a real-life game of Pong, but the words dry up in his throat when he _sees_.

The person is a boy, tall and lanky with curly brown hair pushed away from his face messily and held back by a gaudy Union Jack scarf, green eyes sparkling from all the camera flashes and impossibly pink lips curled in a wide smile that nearly encompasses his whole face.

And Louis recognizes him instantly. And he thinks that maybe if walking into the Olympic Stadium during the opening ceremony wasn’t enough, having Harry Styles’ arm around him might be the killing blow.

Harry Styles is only 18 and a tennis phenom. He’s the country’s sweetheart at the moment, climbing the rankings steadily via his wicked serves to join veteran Andy Murray in the men’s singles tournament. But his bashful personality off the court captured the media’s attention, his life being closely documented since his rise to fame, from what clubs he’s partied at to which girls he’s been dating.

That was, until grainy iPhone shots of Harry at a club grinding up against a determinedly not female form leaked to the press, and he appeared on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross at the next opportunity to openly say he was bisexual.

Easy as that.

Right.

Louis realizes probably several seconds too late that he has been staring at Harry’s lips – his bottom one now bitten in concern – for probably much longer than socially acceptable.

“What?” Louis says, blinking away his thoughts, since Harry’s expression is expectant.

Harry releases his bottom lip and breaks into that wide smile the cameras can’t get enough of. But when he speaks again, Louis can only be entranced by how his mouth moves, since his words are eaten up by the vacuum of noise inside the stadium.

“Sorry!” Louis shouts because it is decidedly time to make as graceful of an exit as possibly before he spends any more time short-circuiting over Harry Styles’ lips. “Too loud! I’ll just be-”

But before Louis can extricate himself from those ridiculously long (and muscular, Louis’ watched Wimbledon, please) arms and rush back to the safety of his mob of teammates, Harry’s arm tightens to pull Louis in closer as his head ducks down so his lips are pressed – _pressed_ – to the shell of Louis’ right ear.

“I said,” How he can possibly sound like he is whispering in a quiet room when in reality he had to be screaming loud enough to burst Louis’ eardrum just to be heard, Louis  didn’t want to read too much into. “Wouldn’t want England’s best chance in years at a footie trophy trampled before you win us a gold.”

Harry loosens his grip on Louis and pulls away, and the bit of distance is enough for the swim team to come barreling through and break the two apart – thankfully, since Louis, for once in his life, was drawing a blank as far as a witty comeback.

He quickly loses sight of the curly haired and scarfed head as he’s pushed along with the crowd. But a hand soon wraps around his wrist, causing him to nearly go into cardiac arrest right there on the track where Usain Bolt would probably be setting records in mere days.

“Were you just talking to who I think you were talking to?” Zayn shouts in Louis’ ear, not half as soothing as Harry had.

“Jesus Christ, Zayner, how you can sneak up on me in literally the loudest gathering of people in English history, I will never understand,” Louis is good at casual avoidance.

“I thought you said you were swearing off all things sex until after the Olympics? But, I mean, if you’re going to make exceptions I guess Harry Styles is a good o-”

Louis clamps a hand over his best friend’s mouth and shout-hisses into his ear. “I have, and it was nothing! Never speak of this again.”

“I’m just saying,” Zayn bats Louis’ hand away. “Haven’t you fancied that pants off ‘im since you first saw him bumble his way through the French Open at 16?”

Louis can really not handle thinking about a jailbait Harry Styles in that oh-so-white and tight little tennis outfit. This is the opening ceremony, for Christ’s sake. No time for his teenage sexual fantasies.

“Enough with the walk down memory lane and more focus on the walk through Olympic Stadium, all right?” Louis throws an arm back over Zayn’s shoulders and lets his eyes wander back to the immense and burning Olympic Torch at the very top of the stands.

And if he only manages to think of Harry Styles several dozen more times before his head hits his pillow back at the athletes’ village that night, then Louis marks it a success.

***

Everyone’s feet are dragging a bit at practice the next morning. They all blame the insanity that was the opening ceremony, but the several pints afterward as nearly the entire team crowded into Louis’ and Zayn’s tiny little apartment at the athletes’ village probably contributed as well.

Louis is currently bouncing from foot to foot, trying to get his soggy mind to catch up and get in the game as he waits his turn in the passing drill. He’s played at West Ham’s Boleyn Ground numerous times, but practicing there as if it was his home stadium is still a bit odd – considering his team is a city rival.

“Come on, lads, pick it up!” Stuart, their gaffer, shouts out to them from where he is glaring on the sidelines. “You may have beaten Senegal, but a 1-0 margin shouldn’t be a comfort.”

That’s the funny thing about football at the Olympics. Great Britain had actually already played its first match the day before the opening ceremony, a tight win over Senegal in Group A up in Manchester. Louis shudders thinking about how the next match is already tomorrow against the United Arab Emirates. At least it’s at Wembley and they won’t have to trek up to godforsaken Hampden Park.

But seriously, footie is not a game meant to be played with just two days between matches. The schedule made Louis curse the day he decided being a playmaking midfielder was a good idea. If he were a keeper like Zayn, he could just stand around all match looking pretty.

“You heard the man, mates. Get to it!” Louis shouts to his teammates after taking his turn in the drill and then taking a lap around the field. He may not be the actual team captain, that falling to one of the illustrious overage players Ryan Giggs, but he’s still looked to as a leader. Comes with the territory of running the midfield.

Usually when Louis plays football, all thoughts leak out of his head, and he can just focus on the game – the feeling of grass crunching beneath his cleats, the air-tight popping sound the ball makes as it leaves someone’s foot, the swish of the goal netting. But today is apparently not the usual. Instead of blank bliss, his mind is absolutely swimming with Harry Styles.

It’s not that seeing the 16-year-old prodigy at the French Open(and Wimbledon, and the U.S. Open and the Australian Open …) had been some sort of sexual awakening for Louis. No, he had known well before 18 that he was gay. Harry had just been … stimulating. Everyone has a celebrity crush, now honestly.

But when Harry came out and made it look so simple, that’s what sent Louis over the edge. He casually dropped the bisexual bomb, and the media just ate it up instead of crucifying him for it. Louis wishes he could do the same, but footie is not as forgiving as tennis. It’s a lads sport. Louis would be traded to freaking Siberia before he could even fully shut the closet door.

Not that Louis hasn’t been able to have some, er, relationships. He managed a few semi-serious ones back in school (well, as serious as horny teenagers can be), and he gets a good lay in every now and then courtesy of London’s abundance of gay bars. But as his profile has risen and the media has taken interest in his stock, Louis has had to be more careful his one night stands won’t sell him out to the papers.

“Hey! Tomlinson!” Louis hears the warning about five seconds too late as a ball crashes into the back of his head. He’s still blinking stars out of his eyes and rubbing the blooming bruise when he sees Stuart sighing on the sidelines and Zayn cracking up in goal.

That’s what daydreaming about Harry Styles will get him. The rest of practice doesn’t go much better.

It’s as they’re all exiting the pitch, ready for cold showers and lunch, maybe a nap before the afternoon practice session, that all the boys start tittering away.

“Hey, is that Harry Styles? The tennis bloke?” Tom, a ManU midfielder, asks to the general group.

“What?!” Louis might snap his head up a little too suddenly to feign casual interest.

“Who’s he waving at?” Daniel, a Chelsea forward, continues.

Louis spots the lanky figure standing in the first row of seats, a shorter boy standing beside him. He is, indeed, waving. Louis looks around his group of teammates on the pitch.

Zayn smacks him on the back of his already sore head. “He’s waving at you, idiot.”

“Why would he be waving at _me_?” Louis smacks Zayn back.

Zayn just rolls his eyes and pushes Louis toward the stands. “Just go say hi, you nutter.”

“Fine, but you’re coming with me, Zaynie,” Louis says as he grabs Zayn around the wrist and drags him along. Harry and the other boy climb down from the stands on to the pitch through a little gate, Harry only stumbling slightly.

Harry waves again once Louis and Zayn are within striking distance. “Hi!”

“What are you doing here?” Louis replies. Smooth. He can practically hear Zayn’s eyes rolling around in his head.

“That’d be because of me,” Harry’s companion chimes in. He’s very blond and very smiley. And very recognizable. “Harry’s a mate of mine and wanted a bit of a tour of my stomping grounds.”

“Niall Horan, right?” Louis asks. “West Ham defender who’s knocked me to the ground more times than I can count?”

“The one and only!” Niall beams before clapping Zayn and Louis on the shoulders in greeting. “Can’t believe we’re letting effing Gunners practice on our pitch. Too bad Ireland is so shite at football, or I could reclaim some of my dignity from you British tarts.”

“Niall,” Harry looks a bit scandalized, but Louis is used to this kind of banter. Footballers have their own language sometimes.

“Hey mate, I actually have something you might be able to help me out with,” Zayn interjects, tossing a quick glance between Louis and Harry before settling back on Niall. “The left goal post is a bit wobbly? Is it always like that? Can you come take a look?”

“Sure, sure, we don’t have as nice equipment as _Arsenal,_ but we do our best,” Niall replies, already following Zayn away and winking back at Harry before he fully turns to leave.

So, they’re alone. Convenient. And awkward.

Harry shuffles his feet through the grass, looking at his feet while Louis coughs, unsure.

“So, do you like this stadium?” Harry looks up at Louis through his lashes. Man, those green eyes. Almost makes this small talk bearable.

“I mean, I’ve seen better. Now that stadium last night, that was amazing. One of the best. Might top the list at this point-”

“You have a list?” Harry interrupts, a smirk quirking at the corner of his lips.

“Obviously, doesn’t every athlete? It’s my thing. Stadiums. I love playing in new ones. It’s just,” Louis is rambling, shut up, shut up, he doesn’t care about your kink for athletic facilities. “Cool."

“Then, actually, you should come with me tonight!” Harry is full on smiling. “Um, you, me and Niall. And Zayn, too, if he wants. And my friend Liam, obviously.”

“Um, go with you where?” Louis crinkles his eyebrows in confusion.

Harry lets out a rather startling horse laugh before clamping a big hand over his mouth to contain it, looking a bit sheepish. Louis is dying, it was too adorable.

“Sorry, right. I have this friend Liam on the swim team. He said he can sneak us in after hours to the aquatics centre for a bit of a tour. I figured as long as I’m here, at the Olympics, I’d see as much behind the scenes stuff as I can,” Harry explains, doing that looking-at-Louis-through-his-eyelashes thing again. “You in?”

***

Louis is regretting this whole “being in” thing.

Regretting because it is nearly midnight, and he is hopping a fence because the door a certain freestyler Liam Payne was supposed to have left propped open was, indeed, not propped open.

Zayn and Niall both easily hopped over. But here’s the thing. Louis is shorter, all right? Not short, just not tall, ok? And this is kind of a larger-than-normal fence, and all he can do is stare at it and contemplate how to launch himself over as gracefully as possible without ripping his tight black jeans in front of an incredibly attractive tennis star.

“Need a boost?” The familiar deep voice asks from behind him. Louis is about to assure he is fine when large hands grip his waist and hoist him up so his hands plant easily on the top of the fence, and he is scrabbling over as quickly as possible so as to hope said tennis star doesn’t see how red his cheeks are and, oh god, he grabbed his waist. No.

Zayn and Niall are all smug smirks as they watch Louis flatten his shirt back into place as Harry easily hurdles over the fence and lands beside Louis, before tripping on his own feet, causing Louis to reach out and steady him by the waist.

“You two struggle buses ready, finally?” Niall rolls his eyes and starts toward the aquatics centre.

They sneak through propped open doors and dark hallways like secret agents. Well, more like giggling schoolgirls because this whole thing is absolutely not subtle and completely ridiculous.

When they make it to the practice pool, where they are to meet Liam, they see a body splashing through the pool. Harry slips over to the edge and, when the boy in the pool is about to make his turn, reaches into the water and grabs his ankle.

Liam, presumably, thrashes about for a while before Harry releases him, and he bobs to the surface. “Hey now!”

“We had to hop a fence Liam. You are a terrible aider and abettor,” Harry laughs as Liam pulls himself out of the pool by his forearms, body glistening in just a speedo. Well now. Louis may be into curly haired, tall, clumsy boys, but he can appreciate a cut six pack with the best of them.

Liam greets Niall by whipping him with his damp towel before extending a hand to Louis and Zayn.

“Nice to meet you both. Heard lots about you,” Liam smiles all crinkly. Zayn can only blink in response. Interesting.

“Really, we are but lowly footie players,” Louis says to cover Zayn’s intense gazing at Liam’s aforementioned six pack.

“But the best hopes for medals out of the lot of us,” Harry says.

“Come on, Liam, let’s get on with this tour. Our lads here have matches tomorrow,” Niall is actually tapping his foot in impatience.

This is true, though. Harry has his first round of 64 match against some barely-more-than-amateur- French player, and Louis and Zayn have UAE, obviously. Louis tries to silence the voice in his head that reprimands him for not being asleep in bed and resting up for the game tomorrow.

“Right then, through here,” Liam leads the way, pulling a robe on over his speedo so thankfully Zayn can focus back on the task at hand.

Liam shows them all the vast practice pools, and they all have a laugh at the vibrating echoes from the arched ceiling. He shows them the team locker rooms, and Louis may or may not take a few selfies in front of Michael Phelps’ and Ryan Lochte’s lockers. So sue him, he can still be a super fan even if he is an Olympian himself.

And when they enter the atrium for the main competition pool, Louis admits, it’s pretty cool. Just everything. The aquatics centre. Being at the Olympics. Casually hanging out with Harry Styles. All of it is just really, really, unbelievably cool.

“Well, that’s about it lads,” Liam says, placing his hands on his hips. “You’ve now gotten the behind the scenes look at the Olympic aquatic centre. How does it feel?”

“Eh, I’m not sure it’s quite over,” Niall says as he pulls one of his chunky white Nikes off.

“What? Wait, what are you doing?” Liam watches Niall worriedly as he shucks his other shoe and then his shirt before running wildly toward the pool, shouting “GERONIMO!” before jumping into the air and cannon-balling into the formerly pristine water.

“Oh no! Nialler! This is the Olympic pool, you can’t just-”

But Liam is cut off again as Harry follows suit, losing his shoes and shirt before diving into the pool behind Niall.

Liam looks absolutely shell-shocked, but Louis puts a hand on his shoulder as he’s already toeing out of his shoes. “Liam, mate, if you can’t beat them. Join them.”

And that’s how all five of them ended up in the Olympic pool half naked and splashing about like kids at a pool party.

And if Louis’ fingers linger a bit in Harry’s wet hair as he dunks his head underwater, then so be it. And if his eyes nearly physically drag over his wet torso as they all scramble out of the pool when they hear security nearing on its rounds, so sue him.

This is the Olympics. What happens here, stays here.

***

Great Britain absolutely smashes UAE the next day, 4-0. Louis grabbed two assists and a goal himself off a free kick, so he is feeling pretty good.

And he’s feeling even better when he checks his phone in the locker room after the game to see a text from a “Harry :)” waiting to be read.

_Great game! Just caught the end bit after my match. Amazing free kick xx_

Louis smiles down at the screen before typing out _How did you get this number???_ Followed by several angry and shocked emojis.

And then before he can sound like an inconsiderate arsehole, he googles how Harry did in his match. He smashed it as well, 6-1, 6-3.

_But not too bad yourself, curly. That Frenchie didn’t stand a chance xx_

Louis continues getting dressed as Harry replies a few moments later. _Might have stolen your phone for a bit last night. Oops. And thx!_

And then almost immediately after: _No game tomorrow right? Fancy some beach volleyball?_

Louis is only mildly embarrassed at how quickly he responds with a: _One more stadium to check off my list ;)_

***

“Aw yeah! This is where the party’s at!” Niall shouts as they all shimmy through the row to their seats in the reserved section for athletes. They couldn’t get tickets for the Misty May-Kerry Walsh game, but they settled on a German and Italian women’s match instead. Not that anyone was truly disappointed, Niall the least. He was already dancing along embarrassingly to the blaring pop music, trying to emulate the dancers bouncing around in the sand for the pregame show.

“Clearly you haven’t been trying to catch a wink every night in the athletes’ village,” Liam mutters, looking a little bleary-eyed. Which, he has a point, Louis thinks. Yeah, all of them are serious athletes seeking to win some serious hardware, but on off days they all _party_. Like, really hard. And the sex, good god. The Australian swimmers above Louis and Zayn’s flat can’t get enough, apparently.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It must be hard to be an elite athlete at the top of his game, Payne-o,” Niall rolls his eyes as he takes a seat, already munching into the huge salted pretzel he’d bought. Instantly he has four sets of hungry eyes on him. “Yo, I’m in the offseason, I’m allowed to eat like this. Stop undressing my food with your eyes.”

They all begrudgingly focus back on the court where the game is just getting started. This really is where the party is at. Every point is just riveting, and Louis finds himself getting caught up in the announcer’s chants and leaping to his feet after every long rally.

“Tommo, you’re such a fan,” Niall laughs as he leans over Harry to punch him on the knee. “Had no idea your true passion was volleyball.”

“I am an appreciator of all sports,” Louis replies, casually ( _casually_ ) flinging an arm over the back of Harry’s chair. Zayn on the other side of him is in deep conversation with Liam probably about Nietzsche or something so Louis is left to fend for himself.

“Well I can tell you what, the sport I can take or leave, but I am definitely an appreciator of women in bikinis jumping around,” Niall smirks, earning him a smack on the back of the head from Harry.

“Niall, don’t objectify these women! They’re elite athletes at the top the their games, as you said,” Harry purses his soft, pink lips.

“Hey, just because you only have eyes for another jiggling arse doesn’t mean-”

“Oh look, match point!” Harry quickly stands up to cut Niall off.

Hmm.

It’s as they are all shuffling out of the match with the rest of the masses and splitting off in different directions – Liam to the aquatics centre, Harry to All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, Louis and Zayn to Boleyn Ground and Niall for a pint – that Harry snakes his arm around Louis’ waist again and dips his head to mouth into his right ear, just like at the opening ceremony. He’s only doing this because it’s crowded and noisy again. Yes. Clearly.

“Will you come to my match tomorrow? Since you have another day off?”

Louis turns his head and finds his lips just breaths away from Harry’s lips. he’s stunned for a second before he remembers he has a question to answer. “Of course, Hazza. I’ll be there,” And then because he is a complete pussy, “Zayn, Liam and Niall, too, I’m sure.”

Harry just smiles that stunning smile of his, and Louis is nearly certain he might go blind seeing it from this close up.

***

“Louis knows absolutely shit about tennis so please don’t let him fool you,” Zayn states as they all take their seats at Harry’s match the next day, again in the reserved athletes’ seating. Louis was in the process of crafting a good luck text message to Harry, but breaks away long enough to stick his tongue out at Zayn.

“Aw, fuck if I know. Love, 40, game, set, match, mumbo jumbo, I just cheer when Haz lets out one of his caveman screams,” Niall replies, this time snacking on a bag of popcorn that Louis desperately desires. Also, caveman screams, Jesus Christ.

“I can explain, if you like. I used to play a bit of tennis back in primary school before I took on swimming. You see, each rally ends in a-”

Louis finishes sending his message – settling on a _GOOD LUCK HAROLD!!!!!! :) xxxxxxxx_ – and reaches over Zayn to put a finger to Liam’s lips. “Please, Payne. Niall and I won’t listen, and Zayn will just be painfully enraptured through your entire description. So let’s just spare everyone involved.”

The way Liam and Zayn blush pretty much in sync is just too gratifying.

Louis is surprised when his phone buzzes with a response from Harry already. _Stick around after the game, all right? You need to check another stadium off your list ;) and thannnnnkkkkssssss xxxxx_.

Harry has the last game of the night, which means the match won’t let out until probably 10 p.m. And while there is a healthy crowd, since a hometown hero is playing, the stands aren’t filled. Which will make sneaking around after for more midnight shenanigans easy … But really, Louis should be getting a good night’s rest before Uruguay tomorrow.

Aw fuck it. _Will do :) Now focus!!!!_

And Harry does focus, if his 6-2, 6-2 win over an Italian is any indication. Louis actually manages to appreciate some of his technique and form. Though, honestly, he spends much more time admiring the nice blue ensemble Harry is wearing and how it pulls over his body in all the right places when he lunges to make a pass or swings his arm to serve. And those caveman screams are so much more thrilling in person. Louis is going to have intense dreams involving those moans.

Fuck. Louis is in so, so deep.

After the match, and Harry’s happy wave and wink up to them in the stands (to Louis, Zayn whispers, but he’s an idiot), they all mill about, loitering as the crowd thins. Eventually, Louis gets a text message directing them to some hidden away side door. Louis begrudgingly uses the “secret knock” Harry had insisted by tapping out the beat to Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream.

The door flings open halfway through the chorus to reveal a very shirtless and very disappointed Harry Styles. “Your rhythm can use some work.”

“For goodness’ – Harold, I’m a footballer, not a musician,” Louis says, casually pushing Harry out of the way and not just using it as an excuse to palm at his naked chest and ogle his expanse of tattoos.

Harry shepherds them all into a spare locker room and tells them to wait there until the coast is clear. He returns a several minutes later, fully dressed – unfortunately – and sporting his gym bag.

“Are we gonna start this secret tour soon, Styles? I’m getting antsy,” Niall complains.

“This should stop your whining,” Harry says as he drops his gym bag on the bench with a clank and pulls out four giant bottles of whiskey, his long fingers fitting around the bottle necks easily.

Oh. So it was going to be that kind of night.

They all spend an hour at least getting drunk in the cramped spare locker room. Louis is thoroughly enjoying watching Zayn and Liam get increasingly handsy with each other the more they drink. Though he probably shouldn’t judge since he is currently plopped in Harry’s lap, one hand tangled in his curls.

“I think it’s time for the tour!” Harry flings his arms out, causing Louis to nearly tumble to the ground.

They all stumble out of the locker room and listen as attentively as drunkenly possible to Harry’s fairly historical spiel about the club. But none of them have any patience to tolerate Harry’s slightly slurred and even slower descriptions of each picture hung in the hallways and eventually push him to lead them to centre court.

And centre court is really nice. It’s a shame the roof is closed for expected rain the next day, but the grass is still really soft. Louis knows this because he immediately ran to the middle of the court and dropped face first to nuzzle the blades.

He soon feels the ground thud around him as four more bodies drop down beside him.

“This is nice,” Louis voices what’s in his head.

“It is,” Harry mumbles low and raspy, the nearest to him.

Suddenly, Louis doesn’t want to be in the grass anymore. So he hops up and only swerves just a tad on his way up the stands.

“Lou, where you going?” Zayn calls to him.

“To the top!” Louis shouts back, still focused on his climb up the stairs.

“Good grief, someone go get him before he tumbles down, and we have to explain why England’s hope for the future of football is dead on centre court,” Liam says.

“I got it,” Harry mumbles. And soon Louis hears the bleachers rattling behind him before large, warm hands settle on his waist to settle him.

“Hey there, Lou. You sure the top is a good idea?” Harry whispers into Louis’ ear and god damn, he has got to stop doing that.

“I want to be tall,” Louis pouts.

Harry chuckles. “Ok, we can do that. Let’s just go right over here to the press box instead. Then you’re still tall, but also boxed in so you won’t die.”

Harry guides them to a long box in the stands that has, actually, really plush seating. The media have it so good.

Harry laughs again. “That they do.”

Uh oh. Louis can’t tell what he thinks and what he says. Never a good sign.

Louis scrambles up on top of one of the desks and sits cross legged. Harry takes a seat across from him in one of the swivel chairs.

“Do you feel tall?” He asks.

“Mmm. just want to be tall like you. You’re so tall.”

Harry actually blushes, good god.

“I like that you’re smaller. Easier to grab on to,” Harry looks at the floor.

“I like it when you grab on to me,” Louis is so drunk, and this is so not going to end well.

Harry looks up, his green eyes maybe a shade darker. “Yeah?”

“I mean, obviously, Harry. You’re … Harry. And you’re bisexual. And proud. And I’m Louis. Closeted and sexually frustrated.”

Harry giggles. “Well, you could come out of the closet.”

“Please,” Louis dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Tennis is camp, everyone knows that. Football is manly. For lads. I shower with men on the regular.”

Harry just rolls his eyes. “Well then maybe I can help with the other bit then.”

“What other bit?”

“The sexually frustrated bit.”

Silence.

Oh.

_Oh._

Harry is looking at him with an absolutely hungry look and Louis is … at the Olympics, Jesus.

“I’m at the Olympics,” he replies.

“So am I?” Harry looks momentarily confused.

“I swore off all sex until after the Olympics. I need to focus on the game. On the gold. Not on curly haired tennis players in tight white shorts.”

“My shorts are blue.”

“Semantics,” Louis replies with another wave of his hand.

“I think,” Harry says, rising from his chair and – oh no – slithering up to plant one hand on either side of Louis’ body on the table. He’s leaning in so his nose is actually touching Louis’. “I think you just need to relax for a bit. You’re a brilliant footballer. That’s not something you have to worry about. What you should be worrying about,” Harry’s eyes dip to Louis’ lips as he sucks his own bottom one into his mouth. “is why an utterly sexy and hilarious and amazing man like you is depriving himself of basic _pleasure_.”

And, well, that’s it, really. Louis is a weak man.

He lunges at Harry, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him in closer so Harry’s hands nearly slip off the table. Louis sucks Harry’s bottom lip from his mouth into his own and relishes the plush feeling, the sweet taste.

And he’s still pulling until he is lying back on the desk and Harry is collapsed on top of him, trying to maneuver his hands under his T-shirt and up his body. Louis can’t tell where his fingers end and Harry’s curls start because he is so tangled up. Harry is lying between his bent knees and Louis rolls his hips up just as he bites down on that precious bottom lip.

And Harry moans. And all of the fantasies that have been dancing in Louis’ head about Harry’s caveman screams are coming to life, and Louis is nearly coming in his pants, sweet Jesus.

“More,” Harry murmurs as he attacks Louis’ lips this time, shoving his tongue inside and twisting it with Louis’. And it is so, so wet and so, so hot, and Louis just wants more wet and more hot and more Harry. Please, all.

“Off!” Louis breaks away long enough to disentangle his fingers from Harry’s hair and slide them down his back, rucking up his T-shirt and trying to force it over his head. Harry follows suit with Louis’ shirt until they are both shirtless and panting back into each other’s mouths.

And now Louis is regretting wearing his tightest pants because while they make his arse look fantastic and obviously did their job with Harry, they are so constricting, and he’s pretty sure his cock is going to implode from the restriction.

Harry’s gym shorts, on the other hand, leave very little to the imagination, and Louis can feel all of his hard length rubbing up on his inner thigh.

“Fuck me,” Harry is breathless and nibbling on Louis’ ear. He seems to have a thing for Louis’ ears. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please, please.”

It’s hard with Harry’s repetitive moans shooting straight to his cock, but Louis manages a brief moment of clarity.

“Harry, hey, we- ah, we can’t. Our friends are right down there. I have a – Jesus fucking Christ –  game tomorrow and-”

If Harry would stop sucking rather graphically on his jawline this conversation might be easier to have.

“No, Lou, please. I want you. I need you. Inside. Now,” Harry growls the last word and clamps down hard on Louis neck, causing Louis to scream out.

“Don’t you think we should – um – take it slow? Ah, maybe, you know, friendly hand jobs, a blowjob between mates-”

Harry abruptly stops his attack on Louis’ throat and pulls away, looking him straight in the eyes, all concern. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can stop, Lou. I want you to be comfortable.”

And … just god damn it, why is he so perfect?

“No! No! I’m, no, believe me, I am _comfortable_ , all right? I just. I …” Harry is looking down on him so ready and so open, and Louis is … well, he’s an idiot. “You know what, never mind. I want to fuck you. I really want to fuck you. Bad.”

The triumphant smile that breaks out on Harry’s face is gratifying, but not nearly as gratifying as the feeling of his metal zipper being dragged down his painfully throbbing cock.

***

Louis wakes up the next morning to a pounding headache, every limb aching and feeling like he had been hit by a bus, and, oh god, that wasn’t a bus that was Harry Styles.

Louis’ eyes fly open at that realization, though he can already feel a heavy arm draped across his chest and warm breath tickling his neck where Harry’s face is nestled. How the two of them managed to fit on one extra-long twin bed is baffling, though one of Harry’s legs is also flung across Louis’ hips, so maybe it’s not that hard to understand.

Louis can feel his chest start to tighten and his breath hitch. What did he do? Why is he such an idiot? He fucked Harry Styles – several times in several different ways, if his memory serves – whilst fairly drunk the night before a game, and now he is hung over and going to bungle every chance he has at a gold medal, god fucking damn it all.

Harry rustles beside him and Louis freezes, but he just nestles deeper into Louis’ neck with a contented sigh. He looks really angelic, actually, with the morning light shadowing his face in all the right places. Now Louis is struck with an entirely different feeling in his chest. Fondness. Attachment. Absolute raging fear.

Louis slowly extricates himself from Harry’s limbs, carefully lifting the muscular arm from his chest and sliding the long leg down before slipping out of the bed and smushing his pillow in his empty spot for Harry to cuddle. He finds the first pair of joggers and a tank he sets his sights on and pulls them on, grabbing his already packed gym bag and sneaking out of the room, out of the flat and out of athletes’ village without a backward glance.

He remembered to pull his phone and wallet out of his jeans from last night and sees it is still early, nearly 8 a.m. The bus for Cardiff leaves at noon and the game against Uruguay kicks off at 8 p.m. He should have enough time.

He jumps on the tube that takes him to Emirates Stadium. Safe, familiar, home. He needs to clear his mind. Shoot some free kicks. And he really needs to wash Harry’s dried on come off his body.

***

“Mate, what the fuck?” Is Zayn’s greeting as he plops down in the seat next to Louis on the team bus.

“Good morning to you as well, dear Zayn,” Louis deadpans. His headache has only just subsided, and he doesn’t fancy striking it up again.

“I can’t believe you just snuck out this morning! Left Harry alone and confused in your bed. I had to make up some shit about a morning practice, made only slightly unbelievable by the fact that I clearly wasn’t there. He bought it, thankfully, but you owe me.”

“I didn’t ask you to make excuses for me,” Louis mumbles, pulling the sleeves of his team jacket over his hands.

“You’re joking, right? What is your problem? Harry is a great guy, and you two obviously hit it off. He’s not just one of your one night stands, don’t be a prick,” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Last time I checked, you don’t make the decisions about my sex life, all right? Just drop it.”

“Listen, Lou. I just … I think you two could really work, you know? Liam sees it, too. And Niall. I just. You’ve spent so long hiding who you are, Harry could be someone worth coming out for, you know? Since he’s in a similar situation and already out and-”

Oh god, they are not having this conversation. Just no.

“You know, thanks Zayn, and Liam and Niall for that matter as well, for your input. That’s just great. But how about you don’t try sorting out my love life until you can sort out your own, yeah? Last time I checked, Liam Payne has a girlfriend on the equestrian team and doesn’t need a dirty little secret like you.”

Zayn sucks in a breath, and Louis knows he’s gone too far. But he’s in a shit mood, and Zayn has a habit of making everything sound simple when, in fact, everything is really fucking difficult.

They sit in silence for the rest of the two-and-a-half hour drive.

***

They tie. Tie. Uruguay. 1-1. They would have lost entirely if Tom hadn’t miraculous sidestepped a defender and sunk a goal with three minutes left to play.

And Louis played like shit. He couldn’t make a decision for the life of him. Second guessing every play he chose, every pass he made. Not to mention there was zero communication coming from the defense, as Zayn was still giving him the silent treatment.

People don’t win gold medals by tying.

Louis is the first to finish up in the locker room, showering as quickly as possible and throwing on joggers and a sweatshirt before busting through the back doors of the stadium, ready to pout in the back of the bus blasting Adele through his headphones for all two-and-a-half hours back home.

But there’s a lanky figure leaning against the team bus, his curly hair pushed back by the same ridiculous Union Jack scarf.

“What are you doing here?” Louis deadpans before Harry can greet him. Louis tosses his gym bag in the storage under the bus.

“Came to see you play. Niall had a meeting for West Ham, though, and Liam had preliminaries. So just me,” Harry leans over to try and kiss Louis’ cheek.

Louis plants a firm hand on his chest, ducking his head away. “What are you doing?”

“Um, I haven’t seen you since last night. I just wanted to … see you,” Harry looks painfully confused.

“Harry, we are in public, ok? My teammates could walk out at any moment. They can’t see you _kissing_ me.”

“Right, sorry,” Harry nervously adjusts his scarf. “Hey, listen, do you have to ride back on the bus? Maybe we can grab dinner and you can drive back with me?”

Louis snaps. Just, Harry. Then Zayn. Then the game. Then Harry again. It’s too much.

“Are you seriously asking me on a date right now? What part of ‘I am in the closet’ did you not understand?’” Louis bites out. “I just played the worst game I have ever played in maybe ever. Because I couldn’t think. Because instead of thinking about the game and the Olympics and the fucking gold medal, I’m thinking about you! Do you understand?”

Harry bites his bottom lip. “But every other team in your group has lost at least once. You’re still undefeated, you’ll make it to the knockout rounds no problem.”

“That’s not the point! The point is I said I wasn’t going to do this during the biggest opportunity of my life, and I fucked it up. I just. I can’t deal with this right now, Harry. You may be fine to just coast through to the quarterfinals, but I have a real chance here.”

How Harry’s face crumbles sends a pang of guilt through Louis’ chest. He wants to suck it all back into his mouth. But it’s the truth. He has to be firm here if he wants the gold. Even if hurting Harry is more than a little heartbreaking.

“Right, well, I’ll just leave you to it, then,” Harry mumbles and turns to walk away. But before he gets too far, he spins back. “Actually, let me just say one thing. I may not be God’s gift to football, but I’ve got just as good a chance at a medal as you. The difference is that I can tell the difference between what really matters in life, yeah? And I know a shiny piece of metal isn’t going to keep me happy in the long run.”

Harry turns away again and disappears around the corner. And if Louis sheds a few tears alone in the back of the bus while pretending to sleep and listening to Someone Like You, well, no one has to know.

***

Harry doesn’t even make it to the quarters. He loses the next day in the round of 16. Djokovic dispatches of him pretty easily 7-5, 6-4 since Harry couldn’t keep a serve in bounds for the life of him. Louis knows this because he googled it sometime between practice and curling up in his bed for the rest of the day.

He doesn’t have much else to do, in honesty. His and Zayn’s flat has become like a monastery. Just silence. And his phone is no longer blowing up with goofy messages and snap chats from the boys.

Louis reads in the papers the next morning that Harry has skipped town. Left London to go on an Italian vacation since he has no reason to stay at the competition anymore. Louis may have one or several dark thoughts of a tan Harry, sand stuck to his skin, hair slicked back from the salty ocean water, some godlike Italian boy rubbing him down with suntan lotion. Wonderful.

By the time the quarterfinals against South Korea back in Cardiff roll around, Louis is really not himself. He’s usually so sure. So carefree. Especially on the pitch. But he just can’t choose. Can’t make a decision. He thinks his turnovers are at an all-time high because sometimes it just seems like the safer option to give the other team the ball.

So he’s not entirely surprised when he is subbed out and benched at halftime. Not that he doesn’t throw a complete fit to Stuart, possibly flings a folding chair across the locker room and then fumes on the bench for the rest of the match like a child.

Great Britain wins, scoring two second-half goals to seal a berth to the semifinals. Somehow, Louis isn’t as happy as he thought he’d be at this moment. In fact, he’s not happy at all.

***

Shortly after the quarters, Louis realizes he has to pick himself up, dust himself off and get back in the fucking game.

Sure, Harry might be basking in the Italian sun and under the lustful gazes of Italian boys, but that is a lost cause. Louis had royally fucked up on that one. But the Olympics, the gold medal, that he can still salvage.

The one saving grace is that Great Britain’s greatest competition in Spain had failed to even make it out of the group stages. But his team will meet Brazil in the semis, including Neymar. And even if he and his teammates somehow scrape out of that one, Mexico has been hot all tournament and will likely be the final matchup.

So Louis comes to practice early, stays late, tries to prove to Stuart he deserves his starting spot back. That he had a momentary mental breakdown that caused him to forget what a football even looked like, but he’s over it now and ready to lead this team again.

And it works, for the most part. He feels looser on the pitch already, his confidence returning.

Patching things over with Zayn, however. Not as simple.

“Mate,” Louis calls to Zayn once the last practice the day before the semis wraps up. “I mean, Zayn. Can you stay after practice a bit? Help me practice my penalties?”

Zayn’s jaw is tensed which just serves to intensify his glorious, cutting bone structure. He looks about ready to tell Louis to fuck off, which admittedly, he deserves.

“I guess,” He mutters instead, strapping his gloves back on and trotting back to the goal.

“Right, so. I’m sorry,” Louis says as he shoots his first penalty. Zayn easily grabs it out of the air.

“Mmm. Sincere,” Zayn huffs out, tossing the ball back to Louis with maybe a bit more force than necessary.

“Hey, I mean it all right? You know I’m shit with words, cut me some slack,” Louis angles this shot more and applies more force, but Zayn still dives and punches it away.

“Really? You seemed to find the words fine when you were telling me to fuck out of your life and be a straight guy’s bisexual little secret,” Zayn just plants his hands on his hips and stares Louis down.

Fuck. Louis is a right dick.

“I had no right to say that, it was really fucked up. You’re my best friend, Zayn, I know you were just trying to help. I’m just a self-sabotaging arsehole who likes to ruin all good things in his life.”

Zayn tilts his head like he’s considering it. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“Hey!” Louis protests, chucking the ball at Zayn’s chest. He just catches it and laughs.

“Listen, Lou. If I stayed mad at you after all the insensitive and ridiculous things you spouted off, we would never have made it as friends this long.”

“You forgive me?” Louis  widens his eyes in hope.

“Yeah, you twat,” Zayn says, closing the distance between the two and enveloping Louis in a quick hug. “And for the record, Liam broke up with his girlfriend before the Games even started.”

“I think I knew that, I was just being a jerk,” Louis mumbles into Zayn’s chest.

“You know what I’m going to bring up next, right?”

“I’d really rather you not.”

“Harry,” Louis only winces slightly at the name. “You’ve got to patch things up with him.”

“I can’t. You think I said nasty things to you, you didn’t hear my conversation with him.”

“Just give him a call. Explain you had a psychotic break, but you’re back now.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can-”

“No, I mean, I really can’t. I deleted his number and all his texts in a rage after Uruguay. And he’s on vacation in Italy, anyway.”

Zayn wrinkles his nose. “He’s not in Italy. I just saw him yesterday at Liam’s relay.”

Louis takes a step back. Fucking papers can’t get anything right these days. “Oh.”

“Come on, I’ll ring Liam, we’ll get you two together-”

“No, Zayn, please.  I think it’s better this way. Harry is ready for … things. And I’m just not. He deserves someone who can keep up,” Louis continues when Zayn opens his mouth to protest. “Really, honestly, it’s ok. I want to focus on footie right now, anyway. This is what I want. I swear.”

Zayn doesn’t quite look like he buys it, but he drops the subject. Which is probably the best Louis can hope for the rest of his life whenever the topic of Harry Styles may happen to come up.

***

Brazil is really fucking good. Like, really good.

Louis started, and he’s been playing better. Maybe not at his peak again, but he isn’t just handing the ball over to the other team anymore so he marks it an improvement.

But Neymar, damn. He may have a ridiculous fohawk, but he easily could have scored at least five goals by now if Zayn hadn’t been absolutely remarkable in goal. The fohawk and the quiff. Louis thinks there must be a romance novel in there somewhere.

Louis is doing his best to dance around the Brazilian backline, keep the ball out of their possession. The best defense is a good offense and all that, and if his team is just patient, keeps the ball away, looks for an opening, it’ll get the win.

Of course that’s easier said than done when there aren’t huge Brazilians sliding toward him at every possible moment, looking to wipe his ankles entirely out of existence. Also easier when his fellow midfielders aren’t panicking and just lobbing the ball into the box and hoping for the best. Strategy is a thing, really now.

It’s about 20 minutes until the final whistle, and it is still 0-0. Louis would prefer to end this without extra time, as Brazil is known for stamina. And its wicked penalties.

Louis has just won a header in midfield after Zayn’s goal kick and is dancing around, looking for the open pass. He isn’t sure what makes him turn his head at that exact moment to survey the crowd at Old Trafford. Call it a weird twist of fate. But he happens to glance at the athletes’ seating. And he happens to see a wildly cheering blonde boy, a boy with a buzz cut chomping on his fingernails and a boy with curly brown hair and a ridiculous Union Jack head scarf with arms crossed, concentrating on the field.

Harry.

But before Louis can really register what that means or focus back on the game, he’s laid out in a crumpled heap on the ground, a searing white-hot pain shooting from his ankle all the way through his thigh, settling in twist of excruciating knots in his knee.

He buries his face in the grass to muffle his scream of pain and the few tears that escape his eyes. He’s aware of whistles being blown and an outburst of English and Portuguese words as the ref approaches. He looks up long enough to see the Brazilian who blindsided him studs up get a red card before Zayn is crouching beside him.

“Is it the knee, Tommo?” Louis just nods. He hurt his knee back in school. And it had always been a weak spot. Louis just hopes it’s not a tear, or he can kiss that gold goodbye.

Soon the trainers are shuttling him on to a stretcher, ignoring his protests of wanting to stay in the game. He manages to pull Zayn to him before he is carted away and hurriedly ask what Harry is doing here. Zayn just looks confused and shakes his head that he doesn’t know.

Louis holds his forearm over his face as he’s carried back to the locker room to be examined, the noise of the crowd dimming the further under the stands they retreat.

Soon he’s laid on a medical table, the trainers fussing over him, examining his knee before wrapping it up, saying things about MRIs and possible tears, hopefully just a strain. Louis tunes it out. He doesn’t want to hear whatever bad news they bear.

Instead he hopes his team can benefit from the man advantage they have now. Hopes they can still make it to the final, even if he can’t.

Eventually the trainers leave him to ice, and Louis is surprised when he wishes he wasn’t alone. Not for the trainers back, no, but for Harry, of all people. He wishes he were here to make a goofy joke in his equally goofy headscarf and keep Louis’ mind off the possible end to his Olympic campaign. He wishes he were here to stroke Louis’ hair or plant a kiss to his messed up knee to make it better.

He just wants Harry. That’s it, really.

He hears the crowd erupt in ear-splitting cheers, feels the ceiling and walls around him vibrate with the stomps and applause of thousands and knows the home team must have scored. He breathes a sigh of relief. They’re going to the final, and now he knows exactly what he has to do.

***

“You’re sure he’s going to be here?”

“For the thousandth time, yes. Liam got him to the semis without much convincing, I’m sure he can get him to the Olympic final at Wembley, Christ,” Zayn says as he laces up his cleats.

Louis nervously adjusts the brace on his knee. The MRI had revealed it wasn’t a tear, just a bad sprain. But it still meant a bare minimum two weeks without playing. The consolation he would be ready to go by the Premier League opener was not comforting in the slightest.

Two weeks, two days, Louis claims logistics as he still stubbornly dressed for the game – even though he had been thoroughly benched by Stuart, and he managed to accept it gracefully this time instead of turning the locker room into a WWE  match.

“I just want to make sure this isn’t all for nothing.”

“Lou,” Zayn claps a hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye. “It’ll go fine. Though, I mean, you could always call him instead of creating some big dramatic gesture-”

“You know my motto is go big or go home, Malik,” Louis responds. “Besides, a big fuck up deserves a big apology.”

Zayn just shakes his head in amusement and returns to prepping for the game. Louis makes the rounds around the locker room on his crutches, making sure all his teammates are ready to play the games of their lives and win their country a fucking gold medal.

Louis trails out of the tunnel after the starters have already walked on to the pitch with the Olympic hymn playing the background. Wembley is absolutely jam-packed, Union Jacks and red white and blue flooding through the stands. He has one of his “stadium” moments where he gets emotional at the sheer brilliance of it all. He swears he only gets a little choked up in pity that he isn’t on the pitch relishing it properly.

Louis is too jittery to sit on the bench and settles for balancing on his crutches on the sidelines, shouting encouragement and tips to his teammates at every possible moment. He makes a concentrated effort not to look into the athletes’ seating.

Mexico is a good little team. What they don’t have in size, they make up for in speed and skill. Louis keeps screaming for his team to watch the left winger, who has a tendency to hang just in front of the defense before slipping past with the ball and heading straight for the goal.

Louis very nearly topples over on his crutches when Tom sinks a distance strike 20 minutes in. He’s hopping on his one good leg as his teammates run by to fist bump him or ruffle his hair. He smacks Tom on the bum with a crutch for good measure.

He’s more subdued just before the half when the same left winger Louis had been warning about beats all the defenders for a one-on-one with Zayn, sending him in the opposite direction of the ball. A tie going into half is rather deflating.

Back in the locker room, Zayn informs him Harry is, indeed, here. Louis just nods in acknowledgement, not sure what to be more tense about – the game or the tennis star in the stands.

Back on the pitch, Louis is sweating buckets, and he isn’t even playing. There are just too many close calls for both teams. Giggsy ricochets a shot off the crossbar. Then Zayn displays some acrobatics to just barely get a finger on a wrapping free kick. Louis thinks his heart might give out from the anticipation. He hasn’t been on the fan side of football in a long time, and he hates it here.

The clock keeps ticking as it is a fairly clean game, Louis’ injury having sent a message that the refs would not hold back on doling out the red cards. Before Louis even thinks it’s physically possible, there are just 10 minutes left in the game, and the score is still 1-1.

There’s still one substitute left to use, and Louis is in Stuart’s ear.

“Sub in Danny,” Louis demands, hobbling after his coach.

“Jesus Christ, Lou, you are not the manager here. That’d be me,” Stuart’s eyes are still trained on the pitch.

“Danny is strong on the left for attacking and defending. He’s a good choice for fresh legs in extra time. And his penalty shot has been coming along. Scotty is dragging, you’ve got to put him out of his misery.”

“Danny’s penalty shot is a 50-50 crapshoot at best. Go sit down and rest your knee,” Stuart dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

Louis only hobbles far enough to shout at Scott to pick it the fuck up since Stuart won’t listen to his brilliant coaching advice. But his teammates amble through until the final whistle blows before jogging back to the bench to drink as much water and Gatorade as humanly possible while Stuart talks strategy for the next two 15-minute periods.

“You’re making incredible saves, Zayner,” Louis gives his best friend a pep talk. “And your quiff has only fallen just a bit.”

“You’re not chickening out are you?” Zayn asks between sips of water.

“Nope. Completely fine,” Louis smiles, but his clenched teeth say otherwise.

The teams return to the pitch and bumble through the first 15 minutes. It’s easy to tell how tired the players are, and honestly, it is some of the most painful football Louis has ever had the misfortune to witness.

When the second period starts still tied 1-1, Louis has had enough.

“Sub in Danny, come on, Stuart. Don’t be prideful! Use the sub!”

“I’m not using the sub until I know it’s my last opportunity,” Stuart calmly responds.

“What, with a minute left and Mexico up a goal? It’s not going to do you a ton of good then-”

“No, I’m going to wait until a minute left while we’re still tied so I can sub in my best penalty shot before the shootout,” Stuart says.

“Honestly, Stuart, Marvin is not a better shot than me-”

“I’m not talking about Marvin,” Stuart finally turns to look Louis in the eye. “You think your knee can handle one good strike?”

Louis’ mouth drops open in what he’s sure is a very comical display. But all he can do is nod and stutter out his assent.

“Good, lose the crutches and get ready.”

Louis tosses his crutches into the bench and tests out placing full weight on his knee by walking, then jogging a bit. He’s not going to lie, it hurts like a bitch, but he can do it. He swings his leg back and forth a bit and _fuck_ , no, that’s no happening. It’s a good thing Louis learned to be ambidextrous back in primary school. He’s not as good of a shot on his left foot, but he’s studied the Mexican goalkeeper and thinks he can still do the trick – as long as his right knee doesn’t give out before he can actually make contact with the ball.

Stuart signals to the ref with a minute left to make a sub, and Scott comes jogging off, a brief hug to Louis and a pat on the back from Stuart his only send off as he jogs lightly on to the pitch to boisterous applause. He stays out of the way for the final minute of play and thankfully no stoppage time and gathers with his teammates back on the sideline for the penalties order.

“Tommo, you’re going to take us home, all right?” Stuart points to him. Louis just nods.

Both teams line back up in midfield while Zayn takes his position in the goal. Mexico’s first shot sails right to the top corner, Zayn never had a chance.

Tom steps up first for Great Britain and sneaks a risky low shot past the Mexican keeper.

Mexico makes the next one with a fake out, sending Zayn the exact opposite direction.

Giggsy keeps them in the game, though, with a strike just under the crossbar.

Both teams make their next two penalties. Now it’s the final round, Louis’ round. He just hopes this doesn’t go through another round of penalties because while his knee can handle one, it can most definitely not take two shots.

Louis is actually so focused on the grass in front of him and what approach to his shot he’ll make, that he misses Zayn’s amazing save, tipping Mexico’s final penalty over the crossbar.

That means. If Louis makes this, they’ve won. They’ve got the gold.

Louis walks up to the penalty spot, trying not to let his limp show weakness. He takes the ball from the ref and gently places it on the spot, eyeing the Mexican keeper who is all smug confidence as he eyes up his knee.

And for the first time all game, Louis allows himself to look into the athletes’ seating. And there is Harry, hands cupped over his mouth, scarf askew from where he must have forgotten and run his fingers through his hair nervously.

Harry is here. He can do this.

Louis takes a few steps back and waits for the ref’s whistle. As soon as he hears it, he just moves, builds a slow run up into a sprint until he plants his right foot beside the ball, ignoring the lightning strike of pain shooting through his joint, and feels the toe of his boot make purchase with the money spot on the ball.

He lifts his head in just enough time to see the ball swoosh into the top-right corner netting.

Before Louis has even landed back on the ground, he hears the crowd erupt into cheers. And then he is being mobbed from behind by teammates, Zayn having reached him first and screaming into his ear, “GOOOOOOOLLLLLLLDDDDDD!!!!!”

“Ow, lads, shit, fuck, knee, knee,” Louis tries to remind them as he is being crushed on the bottom of an 18-man dog pile.

Suddenly he is freed from the pile and hoisted into the air, carried on the shoulders of several teammates around the pitch.

And this is his moment.

Louis quickly grabs the bottom of his jersey and tugs it off, revealing neat black script Zayn had penned on his chest earlier in the locker room with a sharpie.

He sees the cameras zoom in so the wording is illuminated on the jumbo-tron: “Date Me Harry”

And he’s so turned around with all the celebration, he’s not sure where in the stands to look. Yet the cameras apparently know there is only one Harry Louis could ever care about and finds him in the athletes’ seating, big hands not even enough to cover his wide smile, a delicious blush rising on his cheeks.

But that’s all Louis gets to see as he is pulled down from his teammates shoulders to shake hands with the opposing team and line up for the medals ceremony.

And while Louis definitely savored the feeling of having that huge, heavy, shiny, beautiful medal hung from his neck and definitely openly cried as the flag rose to God Save the Queen, he was surprised to realize there was still somewhere else he’d rather be.

***

The closing ceremony is always more of a party atmosphere than the opening one, but while there is plenty of alcohol from all around the world passing hands before the athletes parade out all jumbled up with countries mingling, Louis isn’t taking part in any of it. Though he maybe should since his knee is killing him, but he refuses to wobble through Olympic Stadium on effing crutches.

“Where is he?” He asks Zayn frantically for probably the millionth time.

“Around. Just keep looking. Fuck, I get no service in this place. It’s 2012 and this is a state of the art stadium, come on,” Zayn mumbles, fiddling with his phone.

After Louis’ grand gesture yesterday in the final, he had returned to the locker room to find just a single text message from Harry: _Closing ceremony._

Like, what the actual fuck is that? He had asked a simple yes or no question that could easily have been texted. But no, apparently Louis falls for guys who are equally into gestures. But the closing ceremony is as good a time as any, as Louis and the rest of the team has been running around ever since the medals ceremony doing ever interview and talk show possible.

National heroes and all that. Comes with the territory.

Athletes’ are already starting to pour back into the deafening stadium, and Zayn and Louis are pushed along with the hordes while still looking around for a cut swimmer and lanky tennis player, respectively.

Louis has just about given up when he is about halfway around the track, but then a strong arm curls around his waist and soft lips graze his ear. “Nice medal.”

Louis turns and is immediately blinded by the beauty that is Harry Styles. God, he had no idea how much he could miss the curve of someone’s lips or the honey texture of his voice.

“We have to stop bumping into each other like this,” is Louis’ lame attempt at a witty response, but Harry chuckles anyway. “Harry before we …” Louis drags him to a stop as athletes continue to stream past them. “I just need to say I’m sorry and-”

“No, I’m sorry,” Harry interrupts. “I pushed you when you weren’t ready. And I said some really shitty stuff to you.”

“What? Jesus, no, _I_ said some pretty shitty stuff. Your stuff was completely spot on, really,” Louis shakes his head. “I was just … afraid. Afraid because being with you could never have just been an innocent fling. Being with you meant confronting things I didn’t ever want to have to deal with. I knew that from the moment I met you, and I panicked because that’s what I do. I panic and fuck things up.”

“You didn’t fuck this up,” Harry soothes, rubbing circles into Louis’ hip with his thumb.

“I didn’t?”

“You came out during a major international sporting event for the sole purpose of a date with me, I’d say that clears a lot of things up.”

Oh yeah. That. The backlash had been, well, manageable. Turns out his teammates couldn’t give two fucks less. Some even said they knew, which is just preposterous. While it had been brought up in every interview Louis has done since, the dramatic fashion in how they won the game usually was of more interest. Leave it to England to care more about a footie win than a gay footballer. Louis loves this country.

And while there had been some shitty comments on Twitter and the like, Louis has brushed them off. He’s sure there’ll be more to handle in the future, it is only day two of life outside the closet, after all, but so far, he’s dealing.

“Yeah, about that,” Louis places a hand on Harry’s chest. “You got an answer for me on that one?”

“At first I thought it said ‘Marry Me’ and I thought you had really lost it,” Harry laughs. “But date you, get to know you, woo you, prevent you from foolishly playing on an injured knee,” he leans in closer again, lips to Louis’ ear, “and fuck you, of course. All of that, I more than willingly sign up for.”

Louis beams as he turns his head to plant a kiss on Harry’s lips.

“Now one last thing,” Louis says as he removes the gold medal from his neck and places it around Harry’s.

“You’re giving me your medal?”

“Well, someone once told me a shiny piece of metal wasn’t going to keep me happy in the long run,” Louis says as he intertwines his fingers with Harry’s and tugs them along back with the parade. “But I figured a medal combined with a Harry Styles just might do the trick.”

Harry lets out a barking laugh before nuzzling into the side of Louis’ head and planting a kiss on his temple.

And it turns out Louis was right. The closing ceremony is a lot better than the opening ceremony when a gold medal is involved – especially when it’s dangling from a beautiful boy’s neck instead of his own.


End file.
